The Kids Are Alright
by iateyourheart
Summary: Dave Karofsky, you are kind of like a car crash in slow motion. AU after 2x6 "Never Been Kissed" in which cake toppers never disappear and the road to redemption is long, hard, and free of red berets. Kurt/Karofsky eventually.
1. Gravity

Notes: Chapters won't exceed 1,000 words. I'll try to keep the updates frequent.

Reviews are lovely. Thanks for reading.

* * *

He lived for those little sadistic moments. The sound of that body hitting lockers, the gasp as ice cold slushie met face, the fear and wide eyes with every insult – they were a treat, honestly. If he didn't stamp out a bit of Kurt Hummel's soul every day, well Dave just didn't feel right. It was like not starting the morning with five McGriddles or something – balance would be lost, the entire world (_his_ world), would be thrown askew, and he couldn't have that.

Kurt Hummel had to have sore shoulders, and ruined fruity designer clothes, and he had to be scared to death, because those were the principles that made up Dave Karofsky's gravity. If you took any of that away, Dave ran the risk of being flung into deep space, and that's why mere minutes after Kurt's balls suddenly decided to drop, and he decided to push (and push, and _push_) until the world ripped apart at its seams, Dave finds himself cowering in the boys bathroom's handicap stall.

In between the litany of, "oh god" and "oh shit" echoing through his brain, there's a small request to Jesus to do him a solid, and keep that cripple kid's bladder under control for the duration of his crisis. He paces, he runs his hands through his dark hair over and over, he sniffs back tears (the traitorous ones he couldn't catch form spots just beneath the collar of his shirt), and he stares at the marker graffiti lining the stall door for so long that he has memorized Brittany Pierce's number as well as the thing she is purported to do with her tongue.

Dave imagines that once Hummel's heart has recovered from the shock of it all, he will flit around in that way he does his tongue barely able to hold off on spouting the words until it comes in contact with another human ear.

"_You see, I'm not the only one in this school who owns Liza: Live at the Winter Garden_."

By the end of fourth period, everyone will know Dave's a liar. By the beginning of the sixth, there will be a facebook page dedicated to photoshopping his likeness wrapped around bare chested male models. By the last bell, he'll be met with whispers, and side-eyes, and smirks instead of the mixture of awe and fear he's worked so hard to maintain.

There will be disgust lined in every inch of Azimio's face ("_dude, what the fuck_?_ I've been naked in front of you_! _Have you been checking out my junk this whole time_?), and there will be no trace of anything resembling their bro code – mercy's not for fags, especially fags that pretend to be anything else.

His head feels like its floating because there is no gravity here, and Dave puts his fist dead on the description of Brittany's wonder mouth. His knuckles loudly crack, and the pain rockets up his arm, and all he can do is, cradle it to his chest like a broken wing.


	2. Eyes

Notes: I'm cool with pretending, "The Substitute" never happened, are you? Great, then for the purposes of this fic we're going AU after Kurt and Blaine confront Karofsky in "Never Been Kissed".

Thanks for reading, reviewing, alerting, and all of that good stuff.

* * *

Dave starts the morning off with five McGriddles.

These perfect, little combinations of pancake and sausage (which should be gross, and if he thinks about the mixture too hard his stomach wants to turn inside out, so he scarfs them down and keeps his mind blank) are consumed in the front seat of his car.

Wrappers get crumpled and tossed. He hard swallows his orange juice, and there's a trickle that escapes the corner of his mouth – it comes to a rolling stop on the front of his shirt.

"Goddammit."

When he inspects the stain damage in the visor mirror, he is struck first by the puffiness of his eyes. It's like the bottom lids are fighting for supremacy; the whites are red streaked and blinking hurts like a bitch (he cries out like a bitch for a second. unmanly displays get punished with knocks to the head by his own hand). There's visible evidence that Dave Karofsky feels feelings written all over his face, and just because there were no side-eyes, or whispers, or facebook pages, and just because Azimio called to ask if he wanted to go chuck rocks at cars and not to disown him _yesterday_, didn't mean that it all wouldn't happen _today_.

It was a matter of time, really. The word doesn't have to come from Hummel's lips, because irrational fear is screaming, "they've figured you out by looks alone" into his ears. The eyes will give him away – their folds like roadmaps – start at the soul crushing rejection after the elation of release, continue down twenty-five miles to the failed intervention by the 'neatly pressed suit' brigade, make a slight right towards the lie that made skipping hockey practice possible ("I've got stuff coming out both ends, coach), and get off on the exit of four hours of sleep plagued with attempts to rewrite history (scenario one: "Thank you for punching the gay out of me, Dave. I'll no longer make you uncomfortable." scenario two: "Why didn't you tell me sooner, Dave? Why don't you kiss me again, Dave?").

When he works up the courage to leave the car behind, the eyes stay focused on the dirty toes of his sneakers, and Dave cuts a hulking path towards first period history. He doesn't even bother to snicker at or give the finger to those unfortunate enough to accidentally connect with his broad shoulders.

He sits. He drops the backpack to his feet. He answers to roll call. He makes a headrest out of his arms on the top of the desk. He works hard to keep his eyes on the whiteboard, and not two aisles over where Kurt Hummel has crossed legs, and a straight ahead stare – he fails. The way Kurt's mouth quirks upward when he checks his phone sends a jolt through Dave that makes him think about a neatly pressed suit, perfectly coiffed hair, and woodsy scented cologne. Brock? Blake? Dave can't remember the kid's name, but Kurt's now smiling wide as he texts, and Dave with his fucking orange juice stains and aggressive self loathing will never inspire that reaction in Hummel. It's not jealousy (he tells himself this over and over), but Dave suddenly hates that (Brock? Blake?) kid so much it makes him shake.

"…And with my handy number randomizer, I've taken the liberty of assigning you all partners. Go ahead and groan; it's like a symphony to my ears."

Dave mostly tunes out the teacher's ramble about this project being worth half of his grade, because American History isn't important to college scouts anyway, but his ears prick up when he thinks he's heard 'Karofsky and Hummel' in the same sentence.

"Excuse me?" Dave asks without bothering to lift his head.

"I said, Mr. Karofsky, you'll be working with Mr. Hummel."

Kurt's hand is up with lightening speed. "Can I request a change of partners?" He pauses as if he's choosing his words very carefully. "Preferably one, whose reading skills have advanced beyond _Go Dog Go_."

"Me, too!" Dave raises his hand as well, and makes sure Kurt gets a full view of his glare. "Justin Bieber's vagina is paining already; I can't work in those kinds of conditions."

"But, gentlemen if I allowed you to switch, I'd have to allow everyone else to as well. That way leads to chaos. Let's give this a week, hmm? If things are really not working, then we'll figure something out."

Dave doesn't have to glance across the room to know he'll be met with disgust and disappointment – he does not inspire smiles in Kurt Hummel. He blinks and it hurts like a bitch.


	3. Notes

_This is my gmail_. _This is the only way you are to contact me, and __only__ in regards to our history project_.

* * *

It's stupid, and embarrassing, and funnily enough he's never felt like a bigger girl than right now because the moment his eyes land on that final "t", the twentieth time Dave has read this note has been marked.

The words are succinct. Utterly to a point. Arranged in such a fashion that their formality could only be described as glacial, but as evidenced by the jagged tears along the spiral rule of this piece of paper, Kurt's hands once touched it. Non-dominant fingertips held this page steady while the dominant ripped it from its notebook binds. Solid black ink glided along the blue lines to form an elegant script (cursive – of _fucking_ course Kurt still wrote in cursive), and Dave's mind is a swirling mass of wonder and awe, and inadequacy. It's the delicacy of the penmanship that does him in, really; Hummel loves the dainty and neat even in writing. Dave thinks of his own janky chicken scratch, and then he thinks of that preppy butt pirate that gets all of Kurt's smiles, and how that guy probably throws unnecessary loops and shit into every letter.

Maybe Kurt and that guy write each other all the time. Maybe each written declaration of love is accented with a spray of cologne. Not Axe – something fruity and unisex.

Dave's chest tightens, his hands are itching (the worst thing in the world is having no target to direct his fists at when the urge to strike pops up), and he can't turn his brain off. The lesson on mitosis is white noise in his ears – his right hand is pressed down on that note, fingers splayed as he stares straight ahead into the curly Jewfro that belongs to the weird kid sitting in front of him…Kurt writes in cursive, this note was probably stuffed into his locker with the same sort of ceremony he would give to clipping his toenails, this kid is _so_ weird, this piece of paper contains Kurt Hummel DNA, maybe he should start ironing his clothes and parting his hair (and what kind of gel does Brock? Blake? use, and can you get it at Wal-Mart?), goddamn this weirdo and his stupid fro, Kurt has the softest lips and Kurt's hands were here (and here, and _here_)…

Dave takes his itchy fingers, plucks the wad of Bubbleyum off of his tongue and plops that glistening mass of artificial watermelon right in the middle of that nest of curly hair.

It's a move that makes his brain finally stop. That earns him a fist bump in appreciation from Azimio. That gets him a trip to the principal's office.

* * *

The week of in school suspension Dave is given for the Bubbleyum doesn't go down so well with his father.

"Your grades are abysmal; you're in trouble every time I turn around…what in the world is going on with you, David?"

Dave doesn't answer. He keeps face turned towards the passenger-side window, fogging it up with his breath and draws stick figures in the cloudy space.

"Are you on drugs?"

There's a loud snort from the backseat, and a boney finger jabs his dad's shoulder. "Watch your speed; and what the hell kind of question is that? Of course, Davey's not on drugs."

Dave doesn't have to turn around to know that the little vein in the middle of Paul Karofsky's forehead is beginning to dance.

"…Dad, do you mind? This is between me, and my son."

"And he's _my_ grandson. You're goddamn right I mind."

"I'm not on drugs." Dave sighs.

"_Told ya_."

"I was just – goofing around, okay? I'm sorry." Dave shrugs and draws a stick figure kicking another in the crotch. "I thought he could use a haircut."

Grandpa laughs hard at that, and leans forward to ruffle Dave's hair. "Boys will be boys, Paulie," he says. "Go easy on the kid."

The volume on the radio goes up to put an end to this line of conversation, but when Dave hears the discussion topic on _Steve and Bubba's Afternoon Jungle_ his heart drops, and he wishes he had falsely confessed to running a meth lab out of his bedroom.

There's a loud snicker from the backseat. "Tell you what, the day this country lets queers get married, is the day I go down to the courthouse with your mother's poodle. Sacred my ass."


	4. Walter

Notes: I hope everyone had a good holiday. Thanks for reading, and reviewing, and alerting. It warms my heart.

* * *

_The Ballad of Walter Karofsky _is an epic tale Dave's been subjected to for practically his whole life. It's told in four verses, and it begins something like this:

**i**

April is the cruelest, but May is indifferent. Unseasonably hot, the only relief from the weather available in a small, West Ohio farm house comes in the form of open windows and manual fans with depictions of Christ's resurrection (funeral home advertisements reserved for their backs). Afterbirth floats on top of dingy, cracked tile.

("I was outta there before your great grandma even knew what was happening.")

They call him Walter.

The end result of backseat, teenaged lust.

The reason for shotguns alongside a bouquet.

The first born.

**ii**

God, and Country, and Family – that's all a boy needs. That's all some boys have.

("I played with sticks and dirt, and I had a grand fucking time. That's all a boy needs.")

There are bootstraps to tighten and to pull. There are metaphorical fires burning in the pits of their bellies (God, and Country, and Family).

The only bacon the wife brings home is meant for pan frying. The father is stout, and stern, and never cries, and never hugs, and never voices feelings that are not tied to anger or disappointment, and he keeps a ring of grime under his nails as a mark of his hard work.

There are ideals that have been forged by intelligent, white, Christian males and people believe in them.

("That's what America's missing nowadays – good, old fashioned ideals. We're overrun with godless, pussy hippies.")

That's all you need. That's all you have.

**iii**

It is 1956, and Walter's peers are all aflutter over men like Brando and Dean. Pretty phonies with their sensitivity. Walter finds the pictures to be a waste of time, but he likes Wayne because he's everything a man should be. He likes Hudson because he always has a lady on his arm.

**iv**

Books are nonsense when you've been blessed with strong hands.

("No one will ever give a shit about whether or not you know when the War of 1812 happened.")

Walter has massive hands and no patience for the written word. He can bale hay and muck stalls, and fix a transmission. He didn't want what the ninth grade had to offer. He has his hands. He uses them.

("Don't bitch to me about some cushy part-time grocery bagger job. Like your great grandfather used to say, 'real men break a sweat'".)

In Vietnam they make use of his hands. He keeps vehicles running – he's photographed hanging off of jeeps in a sweat drenched, standard-issue t-shirt. He's photographed with tiny, Asian women encircling his waist.

("It was a different time back then. Your grandma, she understood.")

He's photographed with his arms slung around other baby faced soldiers.

…

"Let me ask you this; if you were out there, gettin' shot at in the middle of the goddamn jungle, would you want some pansy in charge of watching your back?"

"Seriously? I'm not gonna do this with you right now. Dad, can I be excused, please?"

"You brought it up, Izzy, don't back down. Now, answer my question – would you want some pansy ass, faggot ass weak son of a bitch watching your back? Or, would you want a _real_ man to do it?"

"_I _didn't bring anything up! CNN did, and my opinion begins and ends with 'you're full of crap'. Dad, my appetite is nonexistent so can I go now?"

Dave digs a hole in his mashed potatoes to bury his peas in. He scoops the middle out and carefully plops three garden peas inside, and takes his time drizzling brown gravy over them like fresh dirt. He focuses hard because if he dares to look up for even a second, he's afraid he'll vomit.

Paul sighs heavily. "You're excused, Izz."

Dave grits his teeth at the sound of his big sister's chair scraping across the linoleum, and works on cutting up his steak into even tinier portions.

"You're only running away because you know I'm right." Walter's still talking, still trying to force the moment to some sort of crisis.

"Dad, that's enough." Paul sighs again; all he can do is sigh.

Feet come to a sudden stop. Maybe, Dave thinks, just maybe he can cut this steak into nothing.

"Okay, grandpa I've got a question for you; what if _I_ were gay?"

The edge of the knife cuts clean across Dave's fingertip, and he pushes out of his chair in an instant.

"_Jesus Christ_!"

"Are you okay?"

"You all right, Davey?"

It hurts like a son of a bitch, and he wants to cry, and scream, and throw up. He tries to tell everyone he's fine, but the words won't leave the tip of his tongue, so Dave bids an embarrassingly hasty retreat up the steps to the bathroom (tripping twice for good measure).

His finger makes a bloody mess of the sink – leaving pink stains the water seems to be reluctant to get out. There's a flap of skin that blows back and forth under the spray; it's jagged, like the bits of steak he sawed at.

Dave catches his reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. White as a sheet, round like a butterball, weak like a…

"I should've kept cutting," he says. "I should've kept cutting."


	5. Believer

Dave's kinda grounded for the incident involving gum and Jacob Ben Israel's hair, but then his dad skips town for a pharmacologists convention in Buffalo, and his grandpa passes out to reruns of M*A*S*H around eight o'clock every night so he's able sneak out the door and jump into the cab of Az's truck no problem.

"This party is gonna be off the chain! We're gonna get some beers in you, and _you_ in some blondes."

Azimio laughs loudly and Dave finds it to be infectious. He loves moments like this because he can relax, it comes easy. If Dave was really bad at fooling the world, then he wouldn't be sitting here with his best friend trading crude comments about the opposite sex. He really doesn't seem like it most of the time, but Az is a smart dude – he could smell a rat, and beat that rat to a bloody pulp; the fact that he hasn't sniffed out Dave just means Dave's pretty fucking good at faking normality. And if he can fake it this well, then he can be it. All he has to do is believe with his whole heart.

Tonight, he's going to make the stars shine behind the eyes of some random girl. Make her knees quake. Make her scream his name and God's in the same sentence. Make her want to build temples to worship at the altar of his fingers, his tongue, and his junk.

He's going to. He _wants_ to. He believes it.

"Oh my god, why am I still talking? I'm totally boring you to death, aren't I?"

Her name is Caitlyn. She's a junior at Our Lady of Perpetual Peace. She's on the varsity cheerleading squad ("I'm the top of the pyramid"). She's blonde – Aryan blonde. She's got high cheekbones and crystal blue eyes. She flashes all thirty-two of her pearly white teeth when she smiles ("those aren't veneers? Really? Wow…that's incredible"). She giggles at his dick and fart jokes. Her top is a good two sizes too small – it enhances her D-cup breasts. She leans into him when she talks, and touches his shoulder when she laughs.

She is perfect, and she dragged Dave upstairs so that he could make the stars shine behind her eyes. But, they've been sitting on the edge of a princess canopy bed for thirty minutes with their fingers, tongues, and junk being kept to themselves.

"You're not boring me." Dave gives her a dopey smile and finishes the rest of his beer. He puts the empty bottle on the floor letting it rest against the tummy of a giant, stuffed Pooh Bear.

"Do you know Shawn well?" Caitlyn asks, and she's playing with a stray thread on the comforter while kind of staring at his mouth. Dave directs his eyes to the poster of Dora the Explorer over her shoulder.

"Yeah, well…sort of. We're teammates – um, on the hockey team."

"Oh, that's cool. I've only met him a couple of times through my friend, Jessica. I didn't know he had a little sister." She laughs. "At least, I _hope_ he has a little sister."

Dave laughs, too, but it sounds a little high because Caitlyn's brushed her fingers against his and she's not moving them. There are six beers pumping through his blood stream, and he's waiting on them to kick in and drop his defenses. He's good at faking normality, but Dave can't seem to make himself lean in and kiss this perfect girl.

He stands awkwardly, tips over a bit. "I've gotta go to the bathroom, I'll be right back." He slurs the words. If he believes he's just drunk and not nauseous over the fact the prospect of touching Caitlyn is failing to hold any appeal to him, then it'll become true.

"I'll be here," she says.

While in the bathroom, Dave checks his phone but not because he wants to buy more time (if you believe it, it'll come true). There are no new messages, so he reads old ones; Amazon thinks he'd be interested in a pedal for his _Rock Band_ drum kit (since he bought a guitar controller once), some douchebag refused his fantasy football trade, and Kurt wants to do their history project on Joan Fontaine and Olivia de Havilland.

_I'll take care of the particulars_, _I just thought you should know what you'll be signing your name on_.

It bugged him at the time. Really, _really_ bugged him – that 1) Kurt believes Dave's such a useless moron he can't be trusted to do simple research, and 2) Kurt had to take the topic of 'feuds' and gay it up. Dave has no clue who those two chicks are, and he's pretty sure he's not supposed to know anyway.

Two days ago it bugged, but now it pisses him off. Now the six beers seem to be doing their job – it's like laughing with Azimio, it's easy bringing up a Google chat window and typing in that comment box.

_Fuck you, we're doing the Hatfields and the McCoys_. _You can write the paper if you want,_ _and I'll do the visual aid_.

He hits send, makes a move to leave, but he stops and opens up the chat again.

_There's a girl here that digs chubby boys who sweat a lot_ _and I'm gonna be all up in her guts when I leave this room. So fuck you again, Hummel, for making me confused_.

He hits send, makes a move to leave, but his phone beeps.

_**Okay**_**, **_**Karofsky**_.

That's it. That's all Kurt has to say, and Dave's gritting his teeth hard enough to break them apart.

_Are you condescending me_?

_**That's a mighty big word**_**; **_**did you hear it on Nick Jr**_?

_Stop messaging me. _

_**Stop responding to me and I will**_.

Dave doesn't bother to go back into the bedroom where he left Caitlyn. He puts on a satisfied grin for Azimio, and talks about Caitlyn moaning filthy things in his ear. Because it's easy. Because if he believes it enough, that makes it true.


	6. Mail

In school suspension is so bogus. Holed away in a trailer on the far end of the campus, Dave's spent the last three hours copying odd numbered pages in textbooks. Apparently the promise of a stimulating education does not extend to the isle of misfit teenagers between the senior parking lot and the autoshop building.

His hand starts to cramp up during the French conversations, but he soldiers through long enough to write, "_parlez-vous deez nuts_" as a response to number two and makes sure to look his sickliest before sliding out from behind the desk. Dave has a lie spring-loaded on his tongue as he trudges to the head of the room, an arm strategically wrapped around his middle, he puffs his cheeks out.

"McGriddles," he says with a groan.

A bathroom pass exchanges hands wordlessly.

Somewhere between five pages explaining mitoses and meioses and a banal dialogue with Jean-Luc and Mathilde, the message indicator flashed on Dave's phone. He could see it illuminating the darkness of the desk's cubby, and with every burst of light a surge of hope rocketed through his veins.

Hope is a fucking stupid, dangerous thing – Dave hadn't woken up magically well adjusted, there was no genie to grant him wishes ("make him smile at me, a real one"), and he hadn't fallen into a hot tub time machine (_things I'd do over: [1] shave off pubes. [2] reserve all slushies for Hudson) – _but hope still reared its goddamn head. And he feels totally lame as he pushes open the restroom door because his heart's pounding, the blush in his cheeks has crept its way up to the tops of his ears, and he thinks maybe he's gotten a message from Kurt. Oh, it will be as chilly and to the point as Kurt can make it, but that won't stop Dave from putting it away in the back of his mind. And when he's all alone, exhausted from lying all day, Dave will pull it back out again and use it to spin worlds where his kiss is returned.

The stall door shuts, the latch is secured, the cell phone burns a hole in the pocket of his letterman, hope beats a drum in his ears.

He has an email:

_Welcome to seancody dot com_…

Dave doesn't read past the opening sentence – he can't, really since his vision began to blur at the sight of dicks and asses. When he calms down enough to see straight, but not enough to stop shaking, he opens up Google Chat.

_Fuck you_…_fuck this_.


	7. Glass

Kurt calls him, "kielbasa". Not the most cutting of insults out there to be sure, however if Dave's head had been in the right place he'd be kinda impressed by Kurt's commitment to pork related slurs. But Dave's head is no where near 'right'; neurons are misfiring – their transmissions are staticky and all he can see is that email and Hummel's smug face.

"What is your problem now?"

Dave's not supposed to be here – the in school suspension kids have to park on the other side of the football field to further drive home the point of isolation – the last bell sounded, and he booked it across campus all the way from the isle of misfit teenagers to the parking lot where Kurt stood tossing books into the backseat of his car.

It felt good – _really_ fucking good, to shove Kurt against that car. Like balance had been restored to the universe or something. Like the ground had returned underneath Dave's feet.

"Don't play dumb! You know what you fucking did; you know what you fucking sent me!"

He's in Kurt's face. He's screaming at the top of his lungs, and Kurt's pressed against that car so hard it's as though he were trying to sink into the molding, but that face holds steady. Kurt is steel and granite while Dave is static and molten lava.

"And what did I send you, Karofsky?" Kurt is patronizing and cool.

"Keep your fag shit to yourself! I'm not like you – I'm _normal_." Dave is sweaty and dissolving. "Quit trying to recruit me."

Kurt laughs and it's high-pitched and humorless. "Your head must be a really interesting place. And by interesting, I mean Vince Vaughn and Jennifer Lopez should form a team to investigate it. Contrary to delusional belief, I have never thrown my 'fag shit' in your general direction. See, in order to do that, Karofsky, I would actually have to consider you. I would have to think about you and I don't. Those moments in between your self-insertions into my life are not filled with you. You don't cross my mind. You are a nonentity to me."

The more Kurt speaks, the more the ground under Dave's feet breaks away. He's losing his gravity and he can't keep upright any longer so Dave puts his fist through the passenger side window.

Kurt's screaming at him and it's high-pitched, and Dave's vision has begun to blur. There's a crowd around them now – blobs of shadows cloud the corners of his eyes, and he can hear voices but they aren't as distinct as Kurt's and the litany of curses spilling from his lips, and there's a hand on Dave's shoulder but he's still beating at that fucking car because he can't make himself stop.

* * *

"You want to tell me what's going on?"

Dave rolls over uncomfortably on the hospital bed. He keeps his eyes glued to the television; he's sat through one hour of _Let's Make a Deal_ followed by three hours worth of judge shows ("We don't offer remotes to patients anymore. People kept stealing them"). The Vicodin made breaking his hand and cutting the hell out of his arm not so bad, but it fails to ease the pain of daytime TV and his father's attempts at bonding.

"When do I get to go home?" Dave says and Paul just sighs like he always does, and Dave thinks this is yet another moment where he'll deflect and his dad won't care enough to push but then Paul says,

"We used to be _so_ close…"

The lump in Dave's throat wants to make a pussy out of him by turning into a sob. Swallowing it makes his chest feel like it's on fire.

"Can you grab me a bag of chips or something? I'm starving." Dave takes his eyes away from _Judge Judy _long enough to grab his phone while Paul leaves the room.

There's a text from Az:

_LOL got pics before they towed the car away. Save me some of them good drugs_

And a Google Chat message:

_Room #? _

He mistypes 243 five times before he replies.

"Finn's just outside the door."

Approximately five minutes after Dave hit reply, Kurt Hummel is standing awkwardly at the foot of Dave's hospital bed.

Dave snickers. "I could still beat his ass with one good arm."

Hummel rolls his eyes. One hand is shoved in the pocket of a pea coat while the other palms a bag of _Ruffles_. "Your dad asked me to give you these," Kurt says as he tosses the chips on the bed. "Look, I…"

Dave's working hard to keep his eyes on the TV; normally he would rather eat his own hand than watch _The King of Queens_, but looking at Kurt just makes him feel dizzy. Kurt wears grey so well.

"I'm not here to see how you're doing; in fact I hope everything hurts. I wanted you to know that I didn't send whatever it is you think I sent you."

Dave takes a breath, tries to tear the chip bag open with his teeth. "Then who did you tell?" he says out of the corner of his mouth, and he tries not to smile when Kurt opens the bag out of pity. "I mean, besides Greaseball McDingleberry."

Kurt sucks his teeth. "His name is Blaine, and no one. I'm not in the habit of outing people and neither is he. God knows you don't deserve it, but your secret's safe with us."

Telling Kurt, "thank you" crosses his mind. Telling Kurt, every year since eighth grade he's looked forward to the winter months, because Kurt wears pea coats so incredibly well crosses his mind.

Dave wipes his salty fingertips on the bed sheet. "Cool," he says.


	8. Speak

Dave has a theory and it goes something like this: not all losers are created equal. Your garden variety loser is only made noticeable due to one standout loser-trait (cystic acne, a lisp, a GPA above the bottom of the barrel, a love of show tunes, a love of dressing up like an anime character, etc…etc…), but your _super_ loser (**noun: **a social defect deeply entrenched in mediocrity and failure with no hope of escape) – has to go out of their way to be noticed.

These are your douchebags that ask you to bet they won't eat some gross, unholy concoction like Tabasco sauce and glue. These are your creeps that claim being hit in the face is awesome. Try-hard is stitched into their skin. Invisible is encoded in their DNA.

This is how, Dave thinks, Jacob Ben Israel is able to get around and film things. He's a wall with a mounted camera.

The view count on the video of Dave putting his fist and boots into Kurt's car is at 25,000 so far. Ten of those are Dave himself.

The slow-mo effect makes him look like an escaped gorilla. Like he could tear whole cities down with his fists, and he's just one good second away from snatching Kurt up with his meaty hands and whisking him to the top of the tallest building on campus. And he would pound his chest, he would bare his teeth, he would snarl in savage for "why won't you love me?" The Army would swoop in to riddle him with bullets.

He adds five more plays to the video and suddenly, he wishes he'd done more than put gum in that assclown's hair.

* * *

Dave doesn't really pay attention to anything Figgins has to say. He's heard most of this shit before really ("…were such a good student…multiple complaints concerning bullying…"), but even if he hadn't, it'd be pretty hard to concentrate with the way Kurt's dad is staring him down.

The dude's a wee bit pale – like he hasn't been feeling so hot, but he's glaring at Dave like a pit bull. If they weren't confined to society's polite social constructs, Mr. Hummel would probably be dining on Dave's entrails.

"What the Hummel's are willing to do, David is…"

Kurt's pointedly looking straight ahead. Ms. Pillsbury is looking at him with concerned doe eyes – the sentence, _I'm here if you need to talk_, just fucking itching to leave her mouth. His dad looks comfortable in his mask of disappointment, and Mr. Hummel loudly cracks his knuckles.

Dave snatches a sharpie out of the mug on Figgins' desk and draws a stick figure with giant boobs on his cast.

"…if you agree to therapy."

He's busy sketching the pubic hair, so he didn't catch that last part. "What?"

"Unbelievable." Kurt sighs.

"We will wave suspension and the Hummels will not press charges against you, if you attend therapy sessions," Figgins repeats.

"This was Kurt's idea," Mr. Hummel pipes up. He turns his eyes on Dave again, and Dave swears they're glowing red. "I just want to make it clear that nothing would bring me greater joy than seeing you in an orange jumpsuit picking up trash on the side of the highway."

Dave swallows. "I'm _not_ doing any gay ass…"

"Watch yourself, kid."

"I don't need therapy!" he shouts. "There's nothing wrong me – tell 'em, dad. Tell 'em, I'm all right."

Dave doesn't think he's ever seen his father look so disappointed.

"He'll go," Paul says, "and it won't be a problem."

* * *

He has a therapist appointment at 3:15. At 3:05, Dave walks into the library instead.

Way back when, before his mom verbalized her desire to move out and just settled on arguing with his dad instead, she'd let his sister, Izzy stay with a friend and would take Dave to the library on Friday evenings. He loved it; the musty smell, the rumpled old women behind the counter, the stamp record on the cards. When he got old enough to go on his own, (before he knew that reading for fun was for super losers) Dave would hang out in the poetry section for hours. The rumpled ladies always put up a _Featured Artist_ display at the front of the aisle.

Dave liked Bukowski because he was dirty. He liked Eliot because the dude was bleak one minute and writing about cats the next.

Today's display is on Rimbaud.

He snatches up a book as he rounds the corner, and stops dead at the sight of Kurt Hummel sitting against the stacks with his head buried in yellowing pages.

Dave let's out a conspicuous, "Oof" and Kurt's head shoots up. They lock in a stare – Kurt mouth agape, face inching towards a scrunch of indignation and Dave fingering a copy of _The Drunken Boat_, awkwardly shifting weight from one leg to the other – that lasts only a matter of seconds, but somehow manages to feel as if lifetimes have passed. There's a part of him that's screaming to tell Kurt how sorry he is for everything. Screaming to say how much he wishes he could take back every hateful word, every shove, and every slushie. Screaming to say he knows he doesn't deserve forgiveness, but if maybe Kurt could look at him with a little less contempt then everything would be okay.

"Did you get lost?" Kurt directs this towards the book in his hands.

Dave frowns because fuck it – it's just easier to be an asshole. "I _can_ read, you know."

"I'm sure you can recite whole passages of _Horton Hears a Who_, but what I meant was don't you have somewhere else to be right now?"

Dave's grinning as he closes the distance between them. "You keeping tabs on me, Fancy? I'm starting to think maybe you've got a crush." He's squatting down in front of Kurt now, and Dave pokes him in the shoulder. "Well, don't get your hopes up. I don't take it in the…"

"Yeah, yeah I get it, you fucking troglodyte. You're a _real_ man. I wish I were as happy and as well adjusted as you are!"

"Shut up!"

"You've got a great life ahead of you, Karofsky. I can see it now: 2.5 kids and a precious little wife you can't get it up for…"

"I said shut your mouth!"

"I've been way more than patient with you considering _everything_, and I can see now that's just a gigantic waste of energy you were never worth in the first place. So, I'll let Puck give you pointers on surviving Juvie. I hope a GED gets you far in life, and I wish you misery in every aspect of your future."

It's 3:20 when Dave walks into Lima Behavioral. He apologizes for being five minutes late.


	9. Playground

When Dave was five or six and they lived in Middletown, he and Izzy spent four days out of their week at Happy Kids Daycare. Iz was a mature, older woman of eight still dealing with the embarrassment of being deposited at a care environment that smelled of diaper rash cream and pureed bananas ("_I can be Davey's babysitter, mom_!") – she couldn't bear that shame along with having her little brother following her around looking for golden opportunities to wrestle her to the ground in order to fart on her head, so every day they were there, Izzy would plop down in front of a _Magic Schoolbus _episode and refuse to move until April or Paul Karofsky appeared. Every day they were there, Izzy would give Dave strict instructions to "stay the hell away". Every day they were there, Dave spent his banishment on the monkey bars at the far corner of the playground.

(He can no longer remember the day or the month he met that kid, but he knows it was early autumn because his mom was okay with him leaving in just a hoodie, and he knows it was the early evening because his shadow stretched long against the sawdust.)

The day they met, Dave hung upside down on the monkey bars letting the blood rush to his head. The kid didn't say anything as he approached. Dave didn't say anything as the kid gripped a bar and pulled his legs over it, and they hung in companionable silence until the kid announced he had a headache before awkwardly landing on the ground.

He hadn't wanted to make friends (Izzy's idea that daycare was somehow below their station rubbed off), but that boy kept coming over and hanging upside down, and by the end of the week Dave had a reason to bring his Pokémon deck.

They were discussing the awesomeness of Snorlax when that boy kissed Dave. He just grabbed hold of the swing's chains, pulled Dave close and planted a quick one on his lips like it was nothing.

"I hope our parents don't come because I want to stay here with you."

It's been so long, but Dave still remembers sitting on those swings, and hearing that, and wishing for the same. He never saw the kid again – Paul got a job in Lima and April quit her own in order to stay home and prepare for the move – but occasionally he wonders what happened to him. Does he still like Snorlax a lot? Did he get out of Ohio? Is he happy?

Dr. Costil wants him to write down his favorite memory, and Dave can't stop thinking about the boy at Happy Kids Daycare who gave him his first kiss, but he writes about catching big mouth bass with his grandpa instead.

* * *

"I'm letting you know now, that I'm not going to talk. I mean, I filled out your papers and stuff, but I think therapy is pretty gay and I'm not gonna sit here and cry with a stranger."

Dr. Costil's beard is so blonde that it looks flesh colored. His glasses are thick, black-rimmed and he adjusts them on his face every couple of minutes. He can't be more than forty, and Dave questions his degree of professionalism because the dude is wearing a T-shirt with a blazer over it.

"What makes you think we'll cry together?" he says adjusting his glasses.

Dave hesitates. "I dunno…"

"Do you have something to cry about?"

"I'm not a whiner," Dave says with a frown. "I've seen the way this works on TV – I've never been molested so you can put the dolls away, I love my mom but I don't want to _love_ my mom, and my dad spent enough time with me playing catch and shit – I'm normal, we've got nothing to talk about."

Dr. Castil nods with a slight smile, and scribbles on his notepad. "So, how'd you break hand?" he asks.

Dave grits his teeth. "Car window."

"Why did you put your hand through a car window?"

"I was pissed off, and did something stupid." He shrugs. "It's not a big deal."

More scribbles on that notepad, and Dave bites at the inside of his cheek. "What pissed you off?"

He can see that stupid email and hear Hummel's high-pitched yelling, and Dave shuts his eyes and breathes through his nostrils very slowly. "Nothing – somebody's idea of a joke. Look, I don't wanna talk about it."

Dr. Costil puts his pen down and adjusts his glasses. "That's fine, David. We can talk or not talk about anything you want. This is your time to use however you see fit."

"Okay."

They talk about the Steelers for thirty minutes, and when Dave leaves the office he wants to bitch about how dumb all of this is, but he knows Azimio will accuse him of having grown a vagina just for deigning to show up.

He messages Kurt instead.

* * *

Notes: Took a break, wrote some other things, and now I'm back to this. Hope you're all still with me. I'll be putting up the next chapter as well as a Kurt/Dave one-shot soon.


	10. Waste

"I want to talk about Kurt Hummel."

It's not like Dave ever expected him to – sure, his fantasies fog over his vision sometimes, but even when he's in the midst of a universe where Kurt speaks to him without swears and gritted teeth (where they smile at each other a lot, where Dave's anxiety amounts to sweaty palms from holding hands for far too long), he knows his reality (and it bears down so hard on him that if Dave stops moving for just a second, it'll collapse.) Kurt Hummel does not willingly converse with Dave Karofsky. This is reality. Yet, Dave's had four sessions with Dr. Costil and he's made a point to message Kurt immediately after.

Session one, all Dave had to say was, "_This is fucking stupid_." Session two followed a similar theme, "_I'd slam my dick in a sliding glass door to get away from this sharing and caring crap_." Session three he tried bargaining, "_Dude, I'll pay for the repairs to your car. I swear. Tell Figgins we're cool, and call the whole thing off_." By session four frustration set in, "_Costil says I don't talk enough – that I just let things fester and burst. Bullshit, I talk my head off; it's just that no one really pays attention. I kinda feel like I'm screaming underwater sometimes; you ever feel like that? Like that 'wa-wa' sound all of the adults made in _**The Peanuts** _is coming out of your mouth or some shit? I dunno why I just told you that, or why I bothered sending this. Whatever_."

Dave's not delusional (just a good liar), he knows all Kurt has to offer is an indifferent ear; there's no blame – it's understandable.

It still royally pisses him off, though.

Dave shifts uncomfortably in the chair, presses his lips together in a thin line. "Should I bring my yearbook next week? I mean, if you want to go down the line of losers in my class..."

Dr. Costil adjusts his glasses. "I don't think that's necessary."

"Hummel's not necessary, but you're bringing him up."

Dave wishes Kurt would just tell him to fuck off. That would be better than leaving him staring at a green "online" indicator light and suffocating under stony technological silence.

"I'd say he's pretty important, David. All of the trouble you've been in at school lately has involved him in some way," Costil says as he scribbles on his notepad.

"I was just doing my civic duty." Dave shrugs. "I'm at the top of McKinley's food chain; I'm supposed to waste everyone who doesn't measure up."

Costil continues to write. "Why doesn't Kurt measure up?"

"Maybe it's because he prays to Judy Garland." He snickers. "Or it could have something to do with the _Priscilla Queen of the Desert _medley he did for the freshman talent show. The dude's voice is a pitch only dogs can hear."

"So, Kurt Hummel is gay?"

"Hummel isn't flaming, he's an inferno."

"And it's your job to 'waste' him?"

"Yeah. That shit's not normal – some dude sashaying down the hall in a skirt, it's sick and confusing."

"He makes you feel confused?" Costil sets his pen down and looks Dave straight in the eye.

Sweat has started to bead across Dave's forehead. "That's not what I meant," he says, but the words come out fast and jumbled. "I – I can see how that _could_ be confusing to other guys, you know? Like, if you were to turn around and from behind you saw what you thought was this chick walking like she owned the world. I mean, really confident and awesome, the kind of shit you have to stare at because it's paralyzing and makes you feel so small seeing someone radiate that much power. And then this amazing girl turns out to be a fucking dude in a fucking skirt. Do you have any idea how embarrassing that is? I mean, I'm sure it's pretty embarrassing and I was just trying to look out for my boys. So, Hummel's gay – that's cool for him or whatever, but it's wrong to throw that shit in other people's faces. He fags it up because he wants attention, and I gave him what he deserved."

Dr. Costil is writing again, and Dave has the worst pain in his stomach.

* * *

"_First: I wasn't going to respond_. _That's why it's been a week and I'm just typing this now…in the middle of Urban Outfitters btw, so you are totally screwing with my Cinci shopping utopia_. _Second: there are so many times that I've felt like I was screaming my lungs out and no one could hear that I've lost count_. _It's awful_. _Third: how did things go with Costil today_?"

Dave flops down onto his bed, and awkwardly holds the phone up in the air as he swipes a finger across the touch keys.

"**The taco supreme I'm about to swallow whole will be more enjoyable and useful to me than Costil**."

It takes ten minutes, but he gets a reply: "_Diarrhea is never enjoyable or useful, Karofsky_."

He laughs at that and this feels nothing like the reality he's used to, but Dave's vision is completely without fog, so he's just going to go with it.


End file.
